In The Darkness Bind Them
by woothiswildcat
Summary: ***Chapter 2 is up*** "I once told Grissom that it's easier to keep secrets in the dark. Now I wonder if it's just easier to hide." Catherine's POV. chapter 2 is rated R for some adult situations
1. Default Chapter

In the Darkness Bind Them  
  
-Grissom's POV  
  
-PG-13 probably  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not even the title, which I stole, obviously, from J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings.  
  
AN- This is my first ever attempt to write fan fiction. I have no idea where this came from. It just all came out and it just went where it wanted to go.  
  
Many thanks to graveshiftCSI for all their support, hilarity and great writing.  
  
Special Thanks to Angie for beta-ing this and for Lauri for offering.  
  
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Dust swirling, floating litter dancing across the four lanes to be sucked under the rumbling body of a yellow cab. Cars swooshing by, the buzz and clunk of the switch box as the light changes, farther away, the music from the entrance of the forum shops, farther still, the faint dinging of slot machines as a door opens. Sounds recorded, burned into memory. Listening so intently I can almost feel the tiny hair cells in my middle ear vibrating.  
  
Sunrise on the Strip: when the bright gleam of the neon lights blends into the hot orange glow of the desert sunrise. Vegas night has an aura of seedy glamour; all the lights lit up, making everything seem exciting, whether it's the MGM Grand Casino or the Denny's. People dressed up going to see white tigers or pretentious French circus shows for $75 dollars a seat. The darkness hides the disintegration: the dirt and trash lining the streets: the homeless looking for a quarter to buy booze or hit a slot machine at the liquor store. The darkness disguises the cracks and lines on the surfaces of the buildings, not to mention the cracks and lines on the faces of the showgirls.  
  
But come morning, one sees it all, the blinding orange sun reflecting off the miles of filthy sidewalk and cheap strip mall souvenir stores. In the light of day, I'm always grateful for the shimmering heat slithering up in waves, blurring my vision and for the calming darkness of my sunglasses softening the edges of the daytime world.  
  
Cath thinks that's why I keep my townhouse dark. So I can stay in the soothing shadows of night. She says it's easier to keep secrets in the dark.  
  
The darkness has been both friend and foe to us. Our jobs have always been in the night. Moving freely through duskiness, our path clear but leaving no tracks. We've learned to use that darkness, to bob and weave with only penlight-narrow glimpses of illumination guiding us.  
  
I close my eyes behind my sunglasses and remember a different Catherine, bobbing and weaving and wrapping her lithe body around a glittering silver pole. Slithering in and out of the stage light, her body impossibly beautiful, impossibly erotic, and impossibly unreachable. Men panting in the darkness waving dollar bills and room keys hoping for her attention. The darkness shielded me then, watching her from the back of the club, gulping down too much cheap scotch and hiding my erection, imaging her glistening white skin under my fingertips.  
  
Later, under the harsh white glare of the dressing room lights, her skin seemed pallid, bruises visible. The soft glistening of her body revealed to be body glitter mixed with sweat. The whiteness of the powder she snorted glowing almost translucent.  
  
We'd wear our sunglasses in the diner, avoiding even the yellow glow of the lamps. Pretending to study and drinking scalding black coffee until I was sober and Cath was practically jumping out of her skin. I loved the twitching of her flesh, the goosebumps she got from the air conditioning. She felt like night to me, like everything about Vegas night that was both seedy and beautiful; everything that drew me in and kept me in this odd, harsh city.  
  
Now the city is somehow softer, now it feels like Disneyland for addicts. And now Cath and I work together each night, moving through city streets or stranger's homes bathed in the dimness. We've learned to see into the murkiest corners, the blackest shadows to find what we need. Sometimes I still hide in those shadows and watch her work. No longer shimmying around a pole grinding and thrusting. Now I watch her glide her brush across hard surfaces; I watch her flirt with men, or snap at women---always the ones younger than she. The only glaring white glow illuminating us now is the evidence table, highlighting the dark circles under her eyes and the fine lines deepening when she concentrates on her experiment. The bruises are gone, there is no more Eddie to give them to her. The coke is gone, her addiction conquered with a daughter to consider. We no longer burn out our stomachs with bad diner coffee in the wee hours of the morning, preferring now to meet at our houses for our breakfast ritual. Now we even eat food, the coke and the alcohol no longer stealing our appetites. It is better now. We are happier. But somehow, I miss the crackling harshness of our early days, as if our spirits have softened along with the city.  
  
I open my eyes again, the sun rising higher, the heat beginning to build. July can be brutal, like living in a kiln. And the daylight lasts too many long hours, lingering on and on into the night like an unwanted guest. It's not where I'm comfortable. It's not my world.  
  
I walk quickly to my car, the black interior still cool, not the oven it will be later today when I slide into it to go to work. Now it is a cocoon, dark and solid, filled with sound from the CD player. Not classical, softly melodic and refined, no this is a ferocious dance mix, something Greg would like, the driving bass thrumming through my body. Harsh and loud, that's what I need. That's what drives me forward today, through the heat and the dirt, towards my destination.  
  
Moving forward from one air-conditioned cocoon to another, I step into my townhouse. Dropping my bag by the door, I am overwhelmed by the quiet. There is no harshness here; it is all cool, soothing solidity. I grab the remote and turn on the stereo. Throwing in the same pulsing club CD I turn the volume up loud. I rest my head against the bookshelf feeling the music surge through me making me ache for a drink and a cigarette. I jerk when I feel hands on my back. I turn and look at my breakfast companion. She was there ahead of me, letting herself in with her key to start making the waffles she promised me. There is no vodka in her orange juice this morning, no powder on her nose. She is still, all these years later, impossibly beautiful, impossibly erotic, and now impossibly confused by my choice of music.  
  
She looks at me, eyebrow quirked, amused smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She begins to move unconsciously to the rhythm of the music. The sunlight filters in through the blinds, highlighting her hair, blonder now and curly. I reach up and run my fingers through the silky strands, ignoring her surprise at my touch. How can I explain to her what I need? How can I justify my desire for the bond of our rough past? How do I balance the light and the dark?  
  
I clench my hand, controlling her head with a fistful of hair and dragging her closer to me. She gasps, startled and presses her hands against my chest. I move my mouth to her ear speaking just above the music. I know what I need.  
  
"Catherine---dance for me." 


	2. Creature of the Dark

In the Darkness Bind Them  
  
Chapter Two,  
  
By Kat  
  
Catherine's POV  
  
Disclaimer: see chapter one.  
  
Rated R for adult situations  
  
  
  
Squinting cautiously, I slide dark sunglasses down over my eyes and leave the 24-hour market with maple syrup, strawberries, and cream. It seems too early in the morning for the sun to be rising already. Damn summer days; as a kid I loved the seemingly endless sunlight, but as an adult these long days leave me feeling edgy--and trapped.  
  
Daylight belongs to Lindsey. Watching her play in the park, running and laughing, face towards the sun while I sit in the shade of a tree watching from behind my designer shades. The sunlight glows off her white-blonde hair, the color that I've slowly been dyeing my hair to match. I am content, hovering on the edges, watching her. I no longer belong in the sun: I am a creature of the dark. The night is where I both lost and found my way. It is my oppressor and my savior. In darkness, I control what I reveal. I once told Grissom that it's easier to keep secrets in the dark. I wonder now if it is just easier to hide.  
  
I slide into the cool interior of the Tahoe. I love driving this car. It feels big and powerful. I like being higher than other drivers. I can peek into their cars and see their secrets. Like when I was a kid and sat on the school bus looking over people's fences to see what was there. I was always looking, always trying to catch a glimpse. It felt satisfying somehow to see something that was normally hidden. Like I had a power that no one else had.  
  
I suppose that's why stripping felt good, normal. I was revealing something that was hidden, I completely understood those grown-up boys in suits skulking in the darkened club, hiding behind tables, watching and wanting. Straining to see a glimpse of the secret unknown. I knew what they were feeling, the thrill, the rush. Sliding across the stage on my back, spreading my legs, stilettos in the air. The guys falling all over themselves trying to glimpse what my G-string was hiding. I understood that desire. I controlled it. It was mine. That's what it was about. That was the thrill, besides the money of course: I had all the power. I controlled what I took off and when and how. With just a flip of my hips, or the opening of my thighs, I had men slobbering into their watered-down drinks begging to slip me just one more crisp, green bill. The surge of pure, intense energy was incredible.  
  
The only thing that made me feel more like Wonder Woman was the coke.  
  
I've never told anyone this, but sometimes, when we find coke at a crime scene, I can feel myself start to salivate. The muscle just beneath my right ear begins to twitch in recognition and my skin crawls with goose bumps. Once, Nicky brushed a fingertip up my arm tracing the tiny bumps. He asked if I wanted to borrow his jacket as I silently imploded. And there are days, when I'm alone in the house and the orange-glow-afternoon goes on for too long, when all I want is the blue-white clarity of cocaine. Every cell screaming for it, I curl up, shuddering in a cold sweat. Then I obliterate the shivering with a scalding shower, pulsing the water as hot as I can stand it. On those nights I arrive at work with my skin pink and glowing from the heat. I can feel Grissom watching me, observing, taking in every nuance. I know he knows. I know he spent the afternoon chasing away his demons too. I've told Gris that he's not good with people. But he's good with me. Or at least we're good enough with each other.  
  
I can pinpoint the exact moment that something felt better than coke. My first case solved. Gris and I working together, heads bent over the microscope. Nights of piecing together every detail watching it all come together. Then we watched the suspect go off in cuffs. God, I was flying. Gris was chuckling at me as I bounced around him, my pulse racing, my laugh breathless to my ears. He bought me breakfast that morning. Giggling like kids, we ordered half the menu because I was too wired to decide on anything. Eating a bite of every dish, talking in a flurry of words and gestures, kicking and nudging each other under the table. God I loved it. I loved working with him. I loved watching him work.  
  
And I loved him watching me.  
  
He does you know, he watches. He thinks I can't see him in the shadows, but I can feel him every time. How could I not feel it? To be the sole focus of Gil Grissom's ferocious attention is a sensation so intense it borders on agony. Dancing on those nights when he was in the club was electrifying. He, just getting off work, would come by early to watch me dance before picking me up for our study breakfasts. I always knew when he was in the back of the club. I knew even before I'd see the waitress walking into the shadows with double scotches. And I'd dance for no one but him. Feeling his eyes on me, the temperature of my body would rise until the sweat poured off me under the stage lights. Dancing, dizzy and lightheaded, I could feel his hands on me, his mouth. And I wanted it. I wanted him.  
  
Afterwards, he'd hang in the dressing room while I cleaned up and changed clothes. Trembling so badly at the sensation of his nearness that I'd snort a line, just so he'd think it was the coke making me twitch. Then I'd put my dark sunglasses on so he couldn't see into my eyes, into me.  
  
I slide from the Tahoe into the baking heat. Thick oven-hot air already weighing heavy on my chest and the sun has barely risen. I walk up the steps of the tidy townhouse and use my key to open the door. The cool silence greets me, a soothing blue-grey world of peace after the caustic orange of the morning. I kick off my shoes enjoying the chilled tile on my bare feet. He's not here yet. I can start cooking the waffles I promised him. And whip the cream for the strawberries. The key turns in the door. I feel the hair rise on my neck at the slight sound of metal sliding into metal. My body tenses slightly, anticipating his arrival and the sound of his voice.  
  
I wait quietly, listening to his soft footsteps moving down the hall. My muscles jerk suddenly as loud, pulsing, dance music explodes from his stereo. What the hell? The volume increases and I can feel the throbbing bass pulse through the soles of my feet, through my thighs, and then low into my belly. The sensation leaves me squirming.  
  
I pad down the hall to the living room. He is standing, his back to me, broad shoulders tense as his head rests against the bookcase, leg twitching in time to the rhythm of the music. Curious now, I move up behind him and place both my palms flat on his shoulder blades. I can feel the hard heat of his muscles, his back still warm from resting against the driver's seat. He jerks hard at the contact: I relish in my ability to make him jump. To do to him what he has always done to me. I know I'm smiling as he turns to face me.  
  
The music is pulsing, pounding through me. Staring at him, falling into those eyes, fathomless grey-blue like twilight darkening into night. I can feel myself drowning, surrendering. Overwhelmed suddenly, I open my mouth to make some teasing comment about him stealing Greg's music when I feel his hand touch my hair. I startle as I am electrocuted by his touch. My movement seems to spur him on. His hand clenches hard in my hair and I am dragged towards him. My hands fly to his chest as his mouth descends towards my ear. I feel his chest rumble under my hands as he utters the words of my demise.  
  
"Catherine--- dance for me"  
  
The combination of his words and the sensation of his breath on my ear decimates my nerves and sends the wreckage crackling down my spine. I feel myself shudder and I pray he doesn't notice. His fist tightens in my hair and he hisses in a tight breath through his teeth---Oh God, he noticed.  
  
"Did you hear me Catherine? I want to watch you. Dance for me."  
  
He releases me and I stumble away. His body is rigid, muscles flexing; his fists clench and unclench. The energy and need rising off him are almost visible, palpable. There is no question; I know already that I will dance. I will shimmy and sway; I will tease him. I will be desirable, beautiful, and untouchable. Except that I will let him touch me. When he is ready, I will let him take whatever he needs. I will dance, but I will not be in control. This time, the watcher, the voyeur, will control me. Gil will control me. I shudder again, my breathing ragged. I feel lightheaded, almost high. I step away from him and begin to dance.  
  
He stares, pupils dilated, blue eyes almost black. His breathing is ragged and harsh, the sound hissing high over the music. It is too much. I long for the shelter of my sunglasses, but instead, I close my eyes. Letting the music thrum through me, keeping my eyes closed I begin to twirl my hips. My muscles loosen, remembering the sensation of dancing, of moving. My hands weave up over my head, arms framing my face as I sway and wriggle. I'm getting more confident as my body remembers how to do this, how to undulate and twist, and thrust. As long as I keep my eyes closed I am safe. As long as I can't see him watching me, only feel it, I am safe  
  
I hear a sudden noise and to my dismay, my eyes fly open. Gil has seated himself in his chair, arms out on the armrests, fists clenched. His mouth is slightly open as he pants for breath, eyes blazing. I think that I have never seen anything so beautiful in my life as he is now. I feel a tear slide out of my eye, the hot salty fluid burning a path down my cheek. I'm dizzy again, like all those years ago in the club. My head drops back and I whimper, the sound needy and pained. Gil makes a tight sound in his throat and his muscles jump. I know he is straining to stay seated. I move closer, my movements slowing.  
  
"More" he growls. I desperately try to breathe. I know what he wants. As if of their own volition, my hands move to the buttons of my blouse, popping each one slowly. Gil's jaw twitches each time a button pops open. I slide it off, trying to remember if I put on nice underwear yesterday when I dressed. I turn my back to Gil and look over my shoulder at him feeling the silky fabric slip down my arms. His eyes are locked on mine. I can't pull away until he drags his eyes down my back and then up again. Still dancing, I begin to undo my pants. I slip them down my hips and over my butt. Glancing at Gil, I bend from the waist and slide my pants down my legs. I can feel him watching, taking in my back and butt, hips and thighs. The music changes, my body adjusts instinctively, the rhythm slower but just as intense. The pounding is incredibly erotic and I feel the blood rush from my head as I stand up again. I stumble, the dizziness overwhelming me and Gil is up in a flash. His arms, hard around me keep me from falling. The heat of him, his scent, the rasping of his breath on my overheated skin, I am lost.  
  
I barely hear myself cry out as I impact the wall behind me. My hands claw at Gil's shirt, undoing the buttons, desperate to feel his skin against mine. Gil groans and speeds the process, lifting his shirt just enough to press his abdomen against mine. We both groan at the contact, our skin burning hot in contrast to the air-conditioned room. I get his shirt off just as he unhooks my bra from the front and yanks it from my shoulders. I gasp, first as I feel the room's cold air on my breasts and then again as I feel his chest against my hardened nipples.  
  
Gil's hand returns to my hair, again clenching a fistful and controlling my head with it. I open my eyes and meet his piercing stare. We are both panting and clinging to each other. I hear a small mewling sound and realize it's coming from me as I struggle to stay upright. Gil's body pressing me against the wall is the only thing keeping my legs from buckling. He tugs my hair once more and his tongue darts out to moisten his lower lip. I watch, mesmerized as his lips move closer.  
  
Our first kiss causes the universe to fold in on itself. Everything narrows down to just us, just this split second in time. His lips are soft, gently brushing against mine in stark contrast to the straining tension in his body. I begin to tremble convulsively. He increases the pressure of his lips and I open my mouth desperate to taste him, to breathe his breath, to slide inside of him. Thank God he is as eager as I.  
  
The velvet softness of his tongue brushing against mine and the scalding hotness of his mouth are my undoing. I moan a deep, desperate, wholly unladylike sound and I rake my hands across his back trying to press him to me. I want to crawl into his skin. I want him to crawl into mine. My hands move to his pants, struggling with his belt and button, and zipper. He roughly grabs my hands away and presses them over my head against the wall, again ravaging my mouth with his.  
  
"Don't move" he says his voice deep and raspy with lust. I look at him and am again lost in his eyes. I stay perfectly still as Gil drops his pants and kicks them off with his shoes, then yanks his socks off. He stands watching me, chest heaving with his breathing, strong muscles twitching and shaking. His erection draws a whimper from me. It is thick and beautiful, curving towards me. I want to touch him, to taste him, but I am frozen, pinned to the wall by his eyes.  
  
He moves towards me, his large hands circling my hips. He grabs the string of my panties on the side of my hip in both hands and with a sudden jerk, tears it. Ignoring my startled cry, he moves to the other side and jerks the other string rending it from my body and flinging it to the floor.  
  
Gil steps towards me and raises a gentle had to stroke my cheek. In this moment, I see all his raw need. I catch a glimpse of what his secrets are. But in this moment, nothing matters, nothing but us. I lower my hands from the wall and wrap them around his neck. Pulling his mouth to mine. His hands move again to my hips and he lifts me. I make a small noise of surprise and wrap my legs around his hips. He whimpers this time as his hardness brushes against my wet heat. I begin to pant, there isn't enough oxygen in the room, the dizziness is back. My head falls back as Gil slides into me. His groan muffled as he buries his head in my neck, licking and kissing the tender skin under my ear that always reacts so strongly to him.  
  
He begins to thrust into me, using the wall for leverage. His movements are short, strong, and steady. I'm so far gone that I'm making a continuous keening sound and clinging to him for dear life. His pace increases and he begins to say my name over and over, like a chant or a mantra. "Cath, Cath, Cath, Cath," To my surprise, I come, convulsing hard in this awkward position: the whole world exploding into scathing white light. Gil watches the whole process, taking in every minute detail of my orgasm. Then his eyes drift shut and he slams hard into me once, then twice more, and comes. His harsh cry, loud and desperate. I was wrong before; this is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.  
  
Amidst our panting and gasping, I feel tiny ticklish drops of sweat gliding down my chest, between my breasts, and down to my belly. I have no idea if it is his sweat or mine. Gil lifts his head and gazes at me once more. I gaze back, fearlessly this time.  
  
I realize that it is his body holding me up. He is my only connection to the ground and the only thing keeping me from falling. And in this moment, I realize, that he is enough.  
  
The End.  
  
  
  
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